


the righteous shall live by faith

by aunt_zelda



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Crusades, Death Threats, Drowning, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Immortality, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Repression, Resurrection, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: Yusuf pressed forward. The man fought well, but he was clearly unfamiliar with the terrain beneath his feet. Yusuf knocked him backwards and towards the river. Mud would weigh him down, and perhaps the water would finish him. With a substantial effort, Yusuf managed to topple the man, sending his helmet flying. Yusuf raised his sword –– and hesitated.The man staring up at him was the man from his dreams. Visions, so he had thought, urging him to battle, putting a face to the shapeless horde of invaders ravaging his homeland.Yusuf’s shock enabled the man to lunge forward, seizing Yusuf’s midsection and sending them both falling into the river.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	the righteous shall live by faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunavagant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunavagant/gifts).



> I imagine this to take place roughly during the Third Crusade, however it’s been a long time since I was studying this in school so exact details might be a bit fuzzy/muddled, especially with details of the First Crusade. 
> 
> Also I’ve never been to this area of the world, so if the landscape I’m describing isn’t accurate I apologize, I tried my best with images online. 
> 
> Title from a Bible quote not because I think Nicolò is more valid, but because I struggle with titles and it seemed to fit.

Yusuf had always been a vivid dreamer. 

He had dreamed of ifrit as a child and cried out in fear, until his mother’s soothing and his brothers’ teasing had put a stop to that. As he grew to manhood he had begun to dream of women from the market, the sweet scents and enticing looks that had suddenly caught his interest. On campaign his dreams had not ceased, though now there were far more dreams of blood, death, and worryingly shirtless soldiers flexing in the sunlight. Most recently Yusuf dreamed of the invaders, one specifically, his pale face marred by a mark on his cheek. Yusuf would have preferred the ifrit dreams from his childhood again. 

Yusuf did not remember a time before the wars. Even as a child playing with his brothers in the garden they had played at fighting. The wooden toy swords were soon replaced by dull practice blades, then real weapons. Yusuf’s mother had watched with apprehension from the house, and as a boy Yusuf had not understood her fear. First her husband went to war, never to return, and then her sons one by one marched after him. Yusuf was too young to understand fear until he saw real battle. Then he remembered his mother’s face, watching him at play with his brothers. 

The invaders were fixated on Jerusalem, but there were many cities. Acre, Jaffa, Edessa, Antioch. Yusuf marched with soldiers and rode with cavalry. The retaking of Jerusalem was a triumph, but all too soon the invaders came again. 

Yusuf was called to defend it, to drive the invaders back. They fought near a river not far from Jerusalem. Yusuf and his fellow soldiers surged into the fray, driving the invaders back and lashing out with sword and spear. 

One enemy caught Yusuf across the arm, spinning him out from the tangle of bodies. Yusuf regained his balance and met the man’s strength with his own, blocking a blow that would surely have taken his head off. They clashed and shoved, staggering further and further away from the main battle. There were more corpses at their feet now than living soldiers. 

Yusuf speared the man through the chest. He fell, and Yusuf turned to return to the fray. Pausing to catch his breath, he felt a sudden blow to the side of his head. Turning around he saw the enemy, spear pulled free from his side, holding a bloody ax in hand. Yusuf felt the warmth of blood trickling down his cheek and pressed his hand to the wound. He fell into darkness and did not did not feel himself hit the ground. 

… 

Yusuf woke on the ground, the battle sounding farther away than before. He saw the enemy, kneeling over one of his fallen comrades and murmuring a prayer. 

Trying to be silent, Yusuf staggered upright. His armor made a sound and the enemy looked up, reaching suddenly for a blade. 

Yusuf pressed forward. The man fought well, but he was clearly unfamiliar with the terrain beneath his feet. Yusuf knocked him backwards and towards the river. Mud would weigh him down, and perhaps the water would finish him. With a substantial effort, Yusuf managed to topple the man, sending his helmet flying. Yusuf raised his sword – 

– and hesitated. 

The man staring up at him was the man from his dreams. Visions, so he had thought, urging him to battle, putting a face to the shapeless horde of invaders ravaging his homeland. 

Yusuf’s shock enabled the man to lunge forward, seizing Yusuf’s midsection and sending them both falling into the river. 

The struggling, buffeting by rocks, and heavy armor and cloth weighed them both down. They drowned together, hands clasping at each other’s arms. 

~*~

Nicolò awoke coughing water. He groaned and sat up, finding himself in the shallows of a river. He shielded his eyes at the glaring sun, which hung low on the horizon now. Had he been in the river all day? Was this a miracle? The thought emboldened him to stand, despite his aching head and gasping breath. 

He looked about and saw a shape in the water. The Saracen he’d fought. He was face down. Nicolò felt a stab of regret that he had not ended the man’s life himself.

Suddenly the man twitched and thrashed in the water. He spluttered and coughed up the contents of his lungs. 

Nicolò contemplated letting him drown. A quick glance around the area showed no roads, no cities, not even a cottage. He could no longer hear the clash of battle: there was no telling how far the river had swept him away. Nicolò remembered a child who had fallen into a river years ago, only to emerge many towns away blessedly unharmed, on a journey that took a man on foot three days. He could be far from Jerusalem now, and only one man would know the way back. 

Snarling in frustration, Nicolò waded into the river and began to haul the Saracen out. 

The man tried to fight, but Nicolò had the advantage of several minutes of steady breath in his body. Ashore, Nicolò tossed the Saracen down onto the riverbank and drew his sword. 

With a shock, Nicolò realized he knew this man’s face. It was the face he had seen in his dreams the closer he had drawn to the Holy Land, in visions sent by God to urge him onwards. He had not thought to meet a real man with such a face. 

“Do you understand me?” Nicolò asked in his native language, nudging the man’s shoulder with the tip of the blade. “God’s teeth, I hope you can.”

His only answer was a surly look and a word which, though Nicolò knew not the language, he could guess the meaning well enough as a curse. 

“Speak?” Nicolò did not care for French, but he knew enough of it to manage.

There was a flicker of recognition on the Saracen’s face. 

“I will not kill thee.” Nicolò sheathed his sword, struggling to find the words. “Speak.”

The Saracen sighed. “Yes. I speak. Little.” His accent was thick but Nicolò had heard harsher before from those he had traveled with, Latin heavy with Spanish trills and mangled by strange Englishmen. 

“Good.” The minimal words were not a concern: Nicolò did not need to know the man’s life story. “Where is Jerusalem?” 

The man squinted, then looked around, casting eyes to the distant hills and the setting sun. He pointed upriver.

“How … length?” Nicolò shook his head. “How … travel … walk …” he snarled in frustration. His lessons seemed such a long time ago. 

“Three days.” The Saracen looked Nicolò up and down and amended that to “Four days.”

Nicolò glared. “I _could_ kill thee.”

The Saracen shrugged. “Could try.” 

Nicolò’s hand drifted to the pommel of his blade. The Saracen’s eyes followed him.

That would get them nowhere, but back into the river. Nicolò tried to rein in his anger. “What is thy name?”

“Why?”

“Shall I call you ‘dog,’ then?” Nicolò wondered if the man meant to enrage him on purpose. He was doing a good job of it. 

“… Yusuf.”

Nicolò frowned, trying to say it. “You … suth” 

The Saracen shook his head. “Yusuf.”

“Ewe … seff?”

Yusuf snorted. “Enough.”

“I am Nicolò di Genova.”

Yusuf showed no inclination to attempt the name. He was, however, staring intently at Nicolò’s face. 

“What?” Nicolò wondered if he had some dreadful wound on his face now. 

“I … when I sleep? See you.” Yusuf said. 

Nicolò felt a chill go through him. “Liar.”

“Why should I lie?” Yusuf shook his head. “I sleep; I see you. Filth.” He spat on the ground. “You are filth.”

“I told you my name.”

“I have no desire to sully my lips.” Yusuf looked to the sword again. “I see. You are a demon. Sent to tempt me. To torment me, in the night.”

“I am not!” Nicolò protested. 

“Liar!” Yusuf stuck out his chin defiantly. “Kill me now: I would rather die in the day than in the dark.”

Nicolò let forth a cry of frustration. “We are going to Jerusalem, You-seth. Lead on.” He gestured up the river. 

After a long moment, Yusuf rose to his feet and began to walk along the riverbank. Nicolò followed. 

~*~

Yusuf watched the invader warily. The man had saved his life, but then threatened him. He was unsure of whether he ought to consider that a debt to repay, or a slight for which he was owed recompense. 

He knew the spear wound to the side should have killed the man. So should the river. But then Yusuf had taken an ax to the side of his head and woken again with no wound. And then he too had drowned in the river. 

Was this madness? Was this a curse? Would they continue like this until one killed the other? 

Yusuf drew a knife he’d managed to conceal from the invader. It was a small blade but it would serve its purpose. Breathing out a prayer, Yusuf sprung forward and tackled the invader to the ground. 

The man was caught unawares, but he fought wildly, scrabbling and tossing sand into Yusuf’s eyes. Yusuf plunged the knife into the man’s throat and held, watching the blood pulse and splatter. He scrambled off the body as it jerked and twitched and finally fell still. 

Heaving with relief, Yusuf turned away, cleaning the knife and bracing himself for the long walk alone to Jerusalem. 

The blade was clean when Yusuf felt hands around his throat. He gasped and gagged, flailing out with the knife and ending up pinned to the ground by the invader. His front was soaked in blood but there was no wound at all on his throat. 

The man’s thumbs pressed into Yusuf’s neck, throttling him mercilessly. Yusuf sank into darkness. 

When he awoke his throat ached, but he lived. The invader scrambled backwards from him, yelping prayers to his God. 

They stared at each other for a long stretch of silence. 

Finally Yusuf slowly stood up. “Jerusalem. There.” He pointed.

The invader frowned. “You speak French much better than that. I heard you before.” 

Yusuf paused, then sighed. “Fine, yes, I speak it well enough.”

“Why did you pretend otherwise?”

“I did not wish to converse with you. But, it is a long walk to Jerusalem to spend in silence.” Yusuf kicked at the ground. “Better to speak with you than not at all.”

“And what shall we talk of? That we have murdered each other, yet still live?”

Yusuf recoiled. “No. No we should not speak of this. I will take you to Jerusalem and then … we shall go our separate ways.”

The invader considered this. “Very well.” He nodded, stood, and followed Yusuf along the riverbank. 

~*~

They made camp by a cluster of trees as the sun began to set. Fortunately there were some date trees, and while the fruit was not much of a meal it was far better than nothing. Nicolò stoked a fire as Yusuf made his evening prayers. His voice carried in the otherwise silent landscape. 

Nicolò had never seen a Saracen at prayer before. At first he watched out of curiosity. But as the words continued he noted the man’s musical voice. It was oddly beautiful, reminding Nicolò of choir song. 

“You ought to have been a singer, not a soldier.” Nicolò said, after Yusuf had finished. 

“My mother used to wish for that.” Yusuf smiled fondly. “She did not want another soldier for a son. But the wars do not stop.” His face creased with concern. “It was peaceful here, you know. Until the Franks came.”

“I am no Frank, I am from Genova.” Nicolò protested. 

“You are all Franks to us. Dirty, rampaging, savage warriors from the north.” Yusuf shook his head. “Muslim, Christian, Jew, all lived in Jerusalem together.” Yusuf paused, looking out over the land. “Then soldiers came. Invaded. Spoiled the peace.”

Nicolò frowned. “That cannot be true. The Pope Himself said Christians were harassed on the roads, forbidden from the Holy City.”

“He lied.” Yusuf shrugged. “Many men lie.”

Nicolò glared. “Do not speak such blasphemy. He hears the voice of God!” 

“Does he? Why send so many Franks, when it was peaceful? We had no need of hundreds of angry, armed men invading our land!” Yusuf glared right back. “He is a powerful man, your Pope. Men invade for a reason. Perhaps he craves gold, or land, or trade routes?”

“This is a Holy Crusade. This is not about wealth.” Even as Nicolò said it, he recalled soldiers on the road here who had delighted in looting cities and towns along the way. War made monsters of men, he knew, but the things he had seen on the road to Jerusalem … 

Yusuf was staring at him intently. “Not for you,” he said begrudgingly. “You believe. You are … ah, the word … you burn, with belief …” he thumped a fist over his heart. 

“Righteous?” Nicolò supplied.

“Yes! Righteous.” Yusuf nodded. “I have known men like you. They believe so fervently they burn. They burn to ash.” He shook his head. “Most soldiers fight for money, or glory, or to kill without judgment of the law. They are not righteous men.”

Nicolò had seen many such men on the journey to the Holy Land. Instead of fervent worshippers, he had found many murderers eager for a place to vent their anger and be forgiven for their sins. Men that fought at his side ought to have swung from a gallows instead back home. How could that be just? He remembered the sting of humiliation when the gates of Constantinople were barred to them. Perhaps the city had done the right thing after all, keeping such men as marched to the Holy Land well outside its walls. 

“It is late. We must rest. The day will be long.” Yusuf looked at Nicolò. “I will not kill you in the night, if you swear the same.”

Nicolò nodded. “I swear.” He was tired and for once, had no desire to kill the other man. 

In the night, Nicolò shivered in the chill air. Yusuf approached him after stoking the meager fire. “Two bodies share warmth best.” 

Nicolò eyed him warily. 

“We swore. What have we to fear from each other now?” Yusuf asked. 

Nicolò thought of vile jokes and stories on the campaign. What became of men who were taken prisoner by Saracens. What became of comrades who slept close and treated each other as man and wife, so far from their wives and families back home. “… nothing.”

Yusuf lay down beside him. After several tense minutes Nicolò heard him begin to snore. Warmed by the man’s heat, Nicolò soon fell asleep himself. 

~*~

In the morning, Yusuf rose for prayer. He saw Nicolò watching him and tried to ignore that. His body had betrayed him in the night, reacting to the warm press of another against him. Yusuf hoped Nicolò had not noticed his reaction: the peace between them was so tentative, such a thing would surely ruin it.

“Did you dream of me?” Nicolò asked. 

Yusuf thought back and shook his head. That was strange. He had dreamed of this man for some time, and yet last night his dreams had been empty. 

“Strange. I did not dream of you.” Nicolò shrugged. “Perhaps we were meant to find each other.”

“Perhaps.” Yusuf tried not to think of what that could mean, or what their inability to die meant. “We should start. It is a long journey still.”

Their walk drew them away from the river and up a steep hillside. Increasingly they climbed rather than walking, finding handholds among the rocks. 

Near the top, a bird startled from its roost and flew up, causing Yusuf to lose his grip on the stone. He failed, the fear of falling overwhelming his senses.

Nicolò caught his hand and heaved him up onto the ledge.

“I would have lived.” Yusuf said, remembering the events of the past few days now that his heart was no longer in his throat. 

“We don’t know that.” Nicolò said. “It could be, only when we kill each other, that we come back.”

That was true. And there was no sure way of testing it.

“Thank you.” Yusuf looked away from the other man. 

“You … have no reason to thank me,” Nicolò said haltingly. “After all, I need you.”

Yusuf looked up at him.

“To take me to Jerusalem.” 

“Oh, yes.” Yusuf nodded. 

They climbed to the top of the hill and paused to catch their breath, looking out over the valley. 

“It’s beautiful.” Nicolò openly admired it. 

“Yes,” Yusuf said, glancing from the other man to the landscape, and back again. “Beautiful.”

They camped in the shelter of a rock outcropping, huddling for warmth without words. 

~*~

Nicolò rose early, muscles stiff from resting against the rock at night. He paused, studying Yusuf as he slept. It felt strange to think of his enemy as beautiful, but in the morning light, and the safety of slumber, he was.

Shaking himself, Nicolò stretched and prayed, scanning the land for any signs of life. He saw no walls, no roads, no horses. Not for the first time he wondered if Yusuf was leading him into the wilderness to die, but he could see no sense in that since Yusuf doubtless wished to return to his own people. 

Squinting, Nicolò saw something new in the distance. A cloud of dust, growing by the moment. Horses? The sunlight glinted off helmets and armor: riders!

Nicolò woke Yusuf with a shake to the shoulder. 

“They must have seen our fire in the night. Your people or mine?” Yusuf rubbed at his eyes. 

Nicolò turned to look again. He saw no banners, but the helmets were coming into focus. They were not Crusaders. His heart sank. 

Something heavy slammed into Nicolò from behind and he toppled to the ground. He felt a knee on his back and Yusuf’s hands on his arms. 

“Surrender.” Yusuf whispered. “It is your only chance.”

Nicolò knew it was true. One man against so many was impossible. 

The riders approached. They spoke rapidly to Yusuf with words Nicolò could not understand. Soon there was laughter and amiable cadence to their tones. One tossed a rope down, which Yusuf used to bind Nicolò’s hands in front of his chest. 

Nicolò winced as Yusuf roughly hauled him up. He counted ten other men, some glaring at him, others openly mocking. 

Suddenly one of them began to speak French. It seemed he had discovered what Yusuf had: a common language. 

“We could take him to the city. Let the people see him die, and put his head on a spear.” The man smirked, seeing that Nicolò understood him now. 

Nicolò felt a stab of fear. He could imagine the scene, a crowd of furious onlookers eager to see him pay for what he and his countrymen had done. After the stories of Jerusalem Yusuf had told him, Nicolò wondered if he deserved it. He had thought to liberate the Holy Land, and instead he had brought only bloodshed and terror to this place. 

“Yes. That would be best.” Yusuf agreed. He picked up Nicolò’s fallen sword, hefting it in his hand. He swung the pommel towards Nicolò’s head, and Nicolò fell into darkness. 

… 

Nicolò woke to the sounds of screams. 

It was night now, and he was near a campfire. His hands were still bound, and his sword was before him. He fumbled for the hilt. 

A man fell dead nearby. One of the riders. 

Nicolò staggered upright. Another rider lunged for him with a sword in each hand. Nicolò ducked, lashed out, and shoved the man backwards until he tripped over the corpse. Another strike and the man was dead. 

Looking around, Nicolò saw Yusuf fighting two riders at once. One drove his sword through Yusuf’s chest. Yusuf coughed blood and toppled to the ground in a heap. 

Without hesitation Nicolò surged forward. He slashed one man on the leg and cut the other across the belly. They pinned him down, yelling and stabbing with blades. Nicolò managed to kill one, the one with the belly wound, but the other was still standing. He drove his sword so deep through Nicolò’s chest it pinned Nicolò in place. Rising up, the rider smiled in triumph. 

Yusuf rose up behind the rider and slit the man’s throat. 

Nicolò blinked as Yusuf pulled the sword free from his chest. It was agony … and then it wasn’t. He looked down, poking at the place where it had been … and felt only slick blood and smooth, unblemished skin. 

Yusuf helped Nicolò upright. The riders were all dead around them. 

“Why?” Nicolò gasped. He did not know what else to say. 

“You and I are joined.” Yusuf stood very close now. “The dreams, the visions, they stopped when we met. This means something. We cannot kill each other. Perhaps it is a sign, that this war is wrong, and must be stopped.” He clasped hands with Nicolò. “Perhaps you and I, we can restore peace.” 

Nicolò took a risk. He plunged forward, pressing his lips to Yusuf’s. 

To Nicolò’s amazement, Yusuf kissed back, reaching up to grasp him by the shoulders and hold him firmly in place. Nicolò carded his fingers through Yusuf’s blood-streaked hair, stroking a thumb along Yusuf’s ear. 

“This is …” Nicolò shivered. “This is not done, in my homeland.” He knew of some of course, monks who preferred each other’s company and relished the isolation from women, his cousin Lucia who he’d seen giggling with a laundress in the family orchard. “They say … they say it is a beastly thing.”

“Well, perhaps we are beasts of a kind.” Yusuf looked around at the carnage. “We kill our own. We are here, drenched in blood, and cannot take our hands away from each other.” He placed a hand on Nicolò’s hip. “Shall I tame you, wild man from the north?”

Nicolò moaned. He wanted to be tamed, to be held and pinned and feel Yusuf’s hands upon him not for pain but for pleasure. He wanted to make Yusuf feel as good as he felt now. “Yes … please, please.”

Yusuf led him to a bedroll someone had laid out, before the fight. They undressed each other, fumbling hands so skillful in battle now hesitant with such intimacy. Nicolò found patches of Yusuf’s skin still slick with blood, but the sight did not repel him. Instead it roused his passion further. 

They lay down together side by side. It was Nicolò who moved first, reaching out and grasping Yusuf’s cock. Yusuf mirrored him, fingers wrapping around Nicolò’s own length. 

“They were impatient,” Yusuf murmured. “They were going to kill you. I feared they would discover you could not die. But I feared far more that they would succeed.”

Nicolò felt a sudden pang of fear. “I must not let my people take you. They would say you were sent from the Devil. They would burn you.” 

“You will keep me safe. And I shall keep you safe.” Yusuf promised. His breath caught and his hips jerked. 

Nicolò was not far behind Yusuf, coming with a gasp and pressing forward to sink his teeth into the crook of Yusuf’s neck and shoulder. 

They stared up at the stars, fingers lacing together and panting for breath. The rush of battle began to fade as their bodies relaxed in the aftermath. 

They took two horses and rode on together. They would never again be separated.


End file.
